


A World As Yet Unseen

by Dogsled



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Character, Blind Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Sex, Guardian Angels, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Pianist Dean Winchester, Premature Ejaculation, Switch Castiel, Switch Dean Winchester, Time Travel Fix-It, Unrequited Love, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 00:58:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15618918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/pseuds/Dogsled
Summary: This is how it’s always been, as far as Dean knows. He’s always been a disappointed son, he loves playing the piano, and he’s been blind since the incident in his brother’s nursery when he was only four.How things came to be this way Dean doesn't know, but it doesn’t matter; this is his life, and he lives comfortably enough. He gets a little work at a local bar, free drinks during and after his set, and now and again he even manages to pick someone up.Which is where Castiel comes in. Funny, sweet and sort of adorably oblivious, Dean falls for him straight away. And really, who wouldn’t?My Dean Cas Mini Bang entry, simultaneously available as a podfic! https://archiveofourown.org/works/15619848





	1. there's a feeling I get when I look to the west

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by the superb idjitsaviors who was superbly patient with my budget em dashes all the way through this fic, to Crypto who was a wonderful artist collaborator, and to my darling Zosia who gave this the first read through. 
> 
> I did a lot of research for this fic, as it was important for me to represent Dean respectfully throughout the story, but not unrealistically. He's a human being with hopes and dreams of his own, good days and bad days, and a special intimacy with the world that I wanted to understand. There is no magical fix for blindness in this story, and it was a crucial building block to the story that Dean finds his own peace with that. However Dean does dream visually, and I have some fun exploring his new point of view. Please remember that this is a story first, and while I've done my best, I can only apologize if the story fails in some aspects along the way.
> 
> I have wheresyourdog dot com to thank for much of the way Dean interprets the world, and anyone interested should check the blog out even if they're not researching a fic. Please go with care, and if podfics are more your style, I've personally recorded the full audio version of this story and it will be online shortly.
> 
> Check out the accompanying art to this story here: https://space-wolf.com/post/176784384377/my-art-for-thedogsleds-beautiful-fic-a-world-as

  


_ Breathe out, count your heartbeats. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe in. Tune out the sound of barflies chewing peanuts, the heat of the lights, it's all a distraction. Listen to the meter, right thumb on C major. It's like a fish returning to water, so easy, so familiar… _

  
\-----

 

Dean Winchester had been just four years old the day that his life changed forever. He remembered it clearly, because even now it still seemed surreal. On November 2nd, 1983, Dean had seen an angel.

The experience had created a chasm; a longstanding difference of opinion which had only distanced him from his family over the years. To them, it was a freak “electrical accident.” To Dean it was, and always would be, something different. No number of therapists telling him that what he’d seen was just a child's mind trying to come to terms with the tragedy would ever convince him otherwise.

Dean had seen what he’d seen, he maintained, and since it had also been the very last thing he’d seen, it was disrespectful to imply that it hadn't been real. It was an angel, not bizarro lightning, which had burned his eyes out.

  
\-----

 

_ It's not the crescendo that makes him emotional, something with which Dean battles every time he plays. That would imply that only the end of the story was deeply personal. Every part of it makes a cut. By the time he reaches the lift, Dean has usually steeled himself for the inevitable pain. He will not cry in public, not anywhere, not when he’s already so very vulnerable. A single tear would be too many. _

 

\-----

 

Afterwards, Dean would make the bar his home. It was one of the few times in life that he wouldn’t have to buy his own drinks. So long as he stayed cheerful, the whiskey kept flowing. So did the women.

She smelled nice, but then they always did.

“I can't believe you're drinking alone.” Her voice was surprisingly mellow, toned. At once, Dean knew that she used her voice to work. Better, she wasn’t uncertain; her words were direct, and her breath fell on his cheek. She was looking him straight in the face, and Dean could sense that she wasn't unsettled by his eyes as some people were. He would hear the rustle as she turned away, otherwise.

“Not if you join me,” Dean purred, desperately hopeful for someone to help him take his mind from the day he’d had.

“I will, thank you.”

She settled on the stool beside him, offering a tempting waft of her perfume in the process. She smelled good, and Dean felt his face warm under her gaze, feeling almost naked beneath it.

“I know you maybe hear this all the time,” she continued, “but you are  _ so _ very handsome.”

It was a compliment Dean had heard often, but it came with an unintended sting. For all he knew Banksy could have spray painted his face while he was sleeping and he’d never know. The fact that he couldn't look at himself in a mirror was a nonissue compared to some of the other difficulties he faced, sure, but it was always frustrating when it came from people who were just trying to be nice. That was all she was trying to do. But  _ if only _ she'd complimented his piano playing, his choice in beer, or the texture of his suit, minor things Dean was actually able to control in a world that kept on spinning with or without him, he might have gotten laid tonight, rather than screwing  _ himself _ instead.

 

It wasn’t his fault. Today had been shitty right from the start.

“Is that all I am to you? A pretty face, nice abs, a tight ass?” Dean turned to face her. He didn't need vision to see the look on her face.

She stuttered in surprise. “What? No, I… No!”

Her feet hit the floor so fast that it left Dean reeling in a cloud of her fading perfume. He could hear her saying “What an asshole!” to mid air or a friend halfway across the bar, but it was already too late. Dean was left to realise that maybe it wouldn't have been all that bad. After the day he’d had, burying himself in something warm and soft would have been easy. All he would’ve had to have done was not be such an asshole about it, and overlook the perceived transgression like he had every other day. It should have been easy, and it would hardly be the first time he’d stowed his attitude for the sake of a roll in the sheets. Hell, he prided himself on the fact that he wasn’t that delicate anyway, and could laugh about the crappy hand that life had dealt him.

But every other day wasn’t today.

 

.-----

 

He’d woken up on the wrong side of bed. Instead of his usual alarm clock slowly drawing him back to consciousness, the imposing blip of a police car siren outside his bedroom window had jerked him suddenly awake. Dean had flung his arms out wide, expecting to find the support of a mattress on his right and had ended up flinging himself wildly off the side of the bed instead.

At the very least he’d managed to avoid clonking himself on the head against the bedside table on the way down, not that that particular stroke of luck had made the morning any easier.

The authoritative knock on the door came just as Dean managed to reorient himself. It was clear and insistent. An officer waited on the other side. Uniform. Dean could smell leather polish from his boots and the chemical scent of Vaporub from the cold he was fighting. The morning was brisk, too, and a combination of fear and chill prickled the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck.

This couldn't be good.

“Mr. Winchester?” His voice was nasal, and Dean resisted the urge to step back. He hated getting sick; it was disorientating, filled his head with goop and threw off his balance. But if he stepped back, the guy would get offended, or worse see it as an invitation to step inside and more than probably he’d touch things and leave his germs god only knew where.

“Yes?”

“It's about your father. He owns a 1967 Chevrolet Impala?”

Of course it was about his father.

“What's he done this time?”

“There's been an accident.”

“Yeah, he trashed his car drunk, right? So is he dead, or are you just stretching this out to waste both our time?” Dean didn't really want John dead, but he’d just woken up, and Dean was some kind of angry bear before his morning cup of coffee. A grizzly.

“He's in the hospital. It's very serious.”

Great. Wasn’t it just his fate to run ‘round clearing up after his dad? Even years after moving out, setting up in a trailer park rather than living under John Winchester’s roof, Dean was no closer to escaping his father’s influence. He could feel himself scowling.

“I’ll get my coat.”

“Mr Winchester, I only came to inform you this morning out of courtesy…”

“And now you’re gonna  _ courteously _ drive me to the fucking hospital. It’s two buses and a forty minute walk. Now I could do it myself, sure, but like you said, it’s  _ very serious _ , right?” Dean pulled his coat on and zipped it up the front, carefully ran his hand down his sides to check for his phone and wallet, then took his cane down from the bracket beside the door. He gave the cop as impatient a look as he could manage. Or, well, he  _ hoped _ he looked impatient. And  _ pissed _ . “So let’s blow this pop stand already.”

The last thing he wanted was to sit in a hot police car with a snotty deputy, but what choice did he have? He wasn't going to waste half his morning navigating the city's public transit system when it would take Deputy Snot here ten minutes out of his way, max.

Besides, it wasn’t John that he was going for, he reminded himself. He was going because it was what his mother would have wanted.

 

.-----

 

When Dean was just thirteen, his mother had taken ill. Or rather, to be clear, she’d been ill for a long time, and nobody had noticed until it was far too late. Dean had not had any context to understand that the change in her scent he’d registered over time was the incursion of a slow, creeping death. How could he? But it was a smell he associated strongly with her now. When he thought of Mary, he thought of that smell. He remembered the metallic scent of chemotherapy, the smell of bleach and disinfectant soap. He remembered being tossed into the back of the Impala with his brother and driven to and from the hospital daily, the kind nurses who would play with Sam while Dean sat in quiet thought, the squeak of the tile floor under his feet, the hushed voices, and the increasingly weak grip of his mother’s hand. It was a place he associated with his childhood’s transformation, the beginning of his father’s descent into despair and the neglectful treatment in the years that had followed. It was a place he associated with death.

Dean had become a parent to Sam after Mary’s death. Her death had ruined his father. But Dean taught himself to take care of Sam because  _ someone _ had to. Someone had to make Sam’s lunches and take him to school, had to feed him when he returned home, had to protect him from John when he was deep in his cups. Dean had done that. He’d done it all while mourning his mother, and he’d never stopped hating his father for it.

Even now, a decade or more later, stepping inside the hospital where his mother had died was a challenge. But he had made a promise all those years ago, a promise to take care of his father and brother, and that was what Dean intended to do whether or not he thought the old bastard deserved it.

The sickly deputy helped him reach reception, and Dean waited more or less patiently while the woman behind it yammered on the phone.

“And then, would you believe it, Milly kissed him. She  _ kissed _ him, right there in the OR. There’s this guy on the table all stitched up after open heart surgery and his surgeons are snogging when they roll him out. It was totally disgusting.”

Dean rolled his eyes. It sounded like an episode of Doctor Sexy. Maybe that show wasn’t too far off from the truth, after all.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, feigning politeness but interrupting her string of “I know right? Right?” to her friend. “My father is dying, and I wondered if you could help me out.”

The receptionist paused and looked up at him. He could hear her scoff. She went briskly back into her tirade on the phone, this time complaining about him, and Dean edged slightly along the desk, reached over it, and curled his hand loosely around the telephone cord. His fingers skid downward as the receptionist fell silent, gripping the phone tighter so that the cord pulled taut under his palm. Meanwhile, Dean grazed his fingertips lightly over the numbers, and once he was oriented on the direction the phone was facing, he casually but deliberately thumbed down on the receiver, terminating the call.

“What the hell, dude! Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Dean grit his teeth. “Seriously?”

“What do you want?”

“Well first of all, since you asked so nicely, I need you to tell me what’s happening to my father. John Winchester. He was brought in this morning. I’m his son. Secondly, I’m going to need you to page a volunteer or an intern to help me get to wherever that is, and  _ thirdly _ I can’t  _ see _ a goddamn thing, so if I’m asking you for help you better believe I mean it.”

She fell quiet again, and he knew she was studying his face. A moment later she’d exclaim that she had no idea and rush to do everything she could to cooperate with him.

Except that wasn’t what happened.

“Hey! Being blind doesn’t mean you can be a total jerk.”

Dean bared his teeth. “So what’s  _ your _ excuse?”

Thank God for small mercies: the smell of disinfectant arrived just in time, with a flutter of padded footsteps.

“Mr. Winchester? Dean Winchester?”

There was something familiar about the voice. Masculine, aged like wine. “Do I know you?”

“I’m Doctor Hansem.”

Dean remembered him now. “Doctor  _ Handsome _ . What’s up, Doc?”

The doctor chuckled, and Dean flushed and ducked his head. Dumb. Seconds alone with a doctor he hadn’t even talked to in more than a decade, and he was already a disaster. It hadn’t quite the same adorable ring to it as it had when he was a kid trying to find light in a horrible situation. Now it just sounded like flirting.

“I’ve been okay, thank you for asking. Now, Dean. We should probably talk about your dad. Do you mind taking my arm?”

“Uh…” Dean considered it. He could follow the sound of Hansem’s footsteps, but it would be difficult to do that, talk at the same time, and try to memorize the way back. He reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Hansem took Dean’s hand and placed it on his elbow, and Dean negotiated a better grip by linking their arms together, then fell into trusting step beside him.

“Alright. Well I have to tell you straight up, Dean, it’s not great. That old death trap you call a family car took the brunt of the collision, but your dad didn’t make it out unscathed. The surgeons patched him back up, but it’ll be a while until he’s able to go home, and when he does… Well.”

“Well what?”

“He’s going to need assistance while he recovers. Something which, unfortunately, his insurance doesn’t really cover.”

“I’m guessing the surgery wasn’t free either,” Dean muttered. Honestly, though, Dean could care less about the money; it was the threat of having to look after his father for any amount of time, nevermind an indeterminate period while he got back on his feet, which really tore him up. He couldn’t stand even five minutes in his father’s company since leaving home. This sounded a whole lot like caring for the old bastard while he was immobile and grumpy. It sounded like hell on earth.

Dean sighed and rubbed at his temple. “Did it hurt?” he asked, finally. “Or was he so drunk he didn’t notice?”

“It hurt. Still does. And there’s going to be lasting consequences this time.”

Dean clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You’ve made my day, Doc.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Hansem said after a moment. “What’s happened to your family since your mother died… it must have been difficult.”

Pity.  _ Awesome _ . Dean hated pity, even from doctors who obviously really  _ did _ give a fuck. There was no need for his childhood to have been as hard as it was, but the world was full of suffering, and it had a way of begetting more, dragging you down an insatiable whirlpool that spat you out weak and half-drowned if it spat you out at all.

“It was,” Dean answered. “It was  _ super _ difficult. But this is America, right? Poor kids holding things together for their heartbroken parents while they ought to be in school? It’s our national legacy. So...”

“So,” said the doctor, who had no other reply for Dean’s bitterness. They walked in silence down another corridor, then stopped outside a door. Dean could hear the nurses talking in the staff room across the hall. “This is it. Your dad’s in here. I’ll speak to the nurses so that one of them can show you the way back.”

“No need, I got it.”

“You sure?” Dean could hear Hansem’s uncertainty, but there was an urgency there, too, a lilt and a rustle which implied a genuine need to get moving. Busy man, busy doctor, and he’d already spent far too long helping Dean out. “Okay then. If you have any more questions call and ask for my office hours, otherwise the hospital will let you know when he’s being discharged.”

“Goodie.”

Dean held his breath beside the closed door and listened to the doctor’s footsteps as he walked away. He was here. Now for the hard part.

  
\-----

 

“May I buy you something to drink?”

Dean hadn’t paid much attention to the person moving up to the bar behind him, but the low rumble of his voice was clearly intended for Dean, and he turned slowly to face the stranger.

“Are you hitting on me?”

Hesitation, then confusion, creeped into the man’s curated tone. “No. If I hit you I believe we’d both be thrown out.”

_ Wow _ . That was  _ a-fucking-dorable _ . Dean found himself grinning despite himself, shaking his head. “Hitting on, not hitting. Like flirting? Nevermind. Yeah, I’ll take another drink, I’m done with this one.”

Dean downed the last of his free whiskey to make a point, then turned the rest of the way around on his stool. “You here alone?”

“I am.”

Damn it. Whether or not he admitted it, this guy was definitely flirting, but Dean wished he’d be more forthright with it. It was much more difficult to read another person’s interest without being able to look them in the eyes, and Dean hadn’t been able to do that since he was four. Still, at least nobody had ever punched him for coming on too strong. You didn’t hit a blind guy.

“So what do I call you?”

“Castiel. My name is Castiel.”

“Like the angel?”

The other man hesitated. “You know about angels?”

“My mother read me books about angels. I used to memorize their names, long time ago. Castiel is the angel of Thursday, right?”

“Yes.” There was definitely interest in the other man’s voice, Dean thought. God, he hoped so. He’d struck out with the girl, and this guy seemed super cheerful—sort of cute, really. He also smelled very nice, like fresh air after a rainstorm and the metal scent that came after lightning. Dean could imagine burying himself in that scent, maybe in the man’s bed, finding his way between his thighs by touch alone and  _ tasting _ him…

Castiel coughed abruptly, drawing Dean out of his reverie.

“Um. Right. I’m Dean, by the way. Drink?” Dean asked, trying to rein himself back in. He couldn’t help but feel like he’d been caught in the act, sensing Castiel’s unbroken scrutiny. Heat flushed his own cheeks. Wow. What was he, sixteen years old? This was ridiculous. Fortunately the man turned away with a shuffle of heavy cloth, bar stool squeaking underneath his weight. Dean had time to pull himself back together again while the man ordered their drinks.

“So… did you like the set?”

“The set?”

“The piano. At least tell me you heard my rendition of  _ Stairway to Heaven _ ?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you played.”

“Every Monday and Wednesday. Sometimes the weekend if there’s no game and the band backs out.”

“It sounds exciting. I’d like very much to hear you play.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Dean sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t play here again until next week, sorry.”

“Oh.”

It sounded like genuine disappointment. He could hear the man turn away from him, the exhalation of his breath shielded by his shoulder. It was. It had to be. Dean chewed on his lip and shifted awkwardly on his stool.

“Won’t you be in town next week?”

“I don’t know. I’m… It’s complicated.”

Dean could tell it genuinely was complicated by the resignation in the man’s voice; he could also tell that he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead he reached out for contact, finding the man’s arm and then feeling his way along it until he could grip Castiel’s hand firmly.

“Trust me, I  _ get  _ complicated. But if you uh… If you really do want to listen, I have a keyboard at home.” He licked his lips self-consciously again, rubbing his thumb in a circle inside Castiel’s palm. “It’s not pretty, but I could play a little.”

He wasn’t talking about the piano, but he supposed that he could be. Castiel wasn’t pulling his hand away, though, which Dean counted as a win. If the guy had any issues with Dean being so full on, he’d probably have mentioned it by now.

“You're inviting me to your home?” This time when Castiel spoke, his voice was lower, strangely worn with emotion. Dean ran his thumb across the back of Cas’ hand, then curled it around his wrist, resting his thumb surreptitiously over his pulse. To Dean’s surprise, his heartbeat was steady as a clock, slow and unflustered. Practically mechanical. He would have expected it to be racing.

No matter, he’d get it beating faster soon enough.

“Pretty much. I mean, if you want to.”

“For sex?”

“I… might have implied that,” Dean blustered, flushing. He felt like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But it was true, wasn't it? There was no point dodging around if they both knew what this was. “I mean, yeah. For sex.”

Their drinks seemed to have arrived, but Dean found he was no longer thirsty. Sure, his mouth was suddenly as dry as the Arizona desert, but Castiel’s hand had curled in tight around his own fingers, and there was so much promise there that Dean found he simply couldn't resist the pull.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

“That sounds… I mean… I think I’d like that, Dean.”

Dean had to admit he was impressed Castiel remembered his name. Still, he’d expected a little bit more enthusiasm. “You think?”

“I haven't exactly had sex before…”

It was such an unexpected response that for a moment Dean missed his point entirely. “You mean with a guy?”

“I…”

“Wow. Wow, you mean  _ at all?” _ Dean found himself gulping down part of his glass of whiskey just to conceal his smirk. “Don't get me wrong, but you seem way too nice a guy to have been hiding in your parents basement all these years. Or maybe you just have a really mature voice for an eighteen year old?”

“I haven't been hiding in a  _ basement,”  _ Castiel complained. It seemed like maybe he had something more to add, but instead he fell quiet. Dean heard him swallow and replace his glass on the bar.

“Let's go,” he announced, rising from his stool.

“Sure thing, angel.” Dean set his glass back down and stood up to follow, suddenly twice as excited and gripping Castiel's hand fiercely. This was one catch he wasn't going to let get away. A  _ virgin.  _ He could barely stand the anticipation, so incredibly desperate to get Castiel on his back and  _ literally _ make him feel things he’d never felt before. Was that obscene? It sounded that way in his head, but who the hell cared? If a guy couldn't be excited about being someone's first lay then it made the world a dull ass place, didn't it?

Especially considering just how lousily this day had started out.

  
  


\-----

  
  


John Winchester must have been just coming around when Dean quietly entered his room. He sounded like shit, talking haggardly with his doctor while a nurse bustled around the bed, adjusting pillows and hanging fresh saline.

“My son’s here,” John announced, firmly, authoritative despite his condition. “We can finish this later.”

“Mr. Winchester, this is important.”

“My son’s here,” John repeated. “Unless you like having someone talk over you, I suggest we do this my way.”

“He means it,” Dean confided. “He's a stubborn son of a bitch.”

The doctor stormed out, knocking Dean sideward as he did. Fortunately the doorframe was close enough that Dean managed to grab it. It was only a little bump, wouldn't have rattled a sighted person, but the doctor either hadn’t noticed or didn't care. The nurse was more polite, giving Dean a guided tour of the room once he’d righted himself.

“I got it, thanks,” he sniffed, as he dropped into the chair beside the bed, gripping his cane with both hands to make it clear that he had no intention of staying for long.

“I heard you totalled the car.”

“Nothing I can't fix.”

“Not what I heard. I heard it was a pretzel. Heard it was a miracle you came out alive. They still haven't told me what’s wrong with you.”

“Take a look.”

_ Take a look? _ Dean thought.  _ Asshole _ . Dean scowled. The last thing he wanted to do was touch his father, but he was tired of being given the runaround. He needed answers, and at last he was being given the chance to take them for himself. He just wished John would answer his mouth and  _ tell him _ .

He reached out anyway, laid his hand on his father’s shoulder, and began the process of exploring, forcing a blank expression as he worked his hands over John’s chest and down his arms, up to his cheeks, and back across his temple. Nothing so far. Some bandages, sure, but there was nothing that said permanent injury.

He could hear John take a breath and hold it as he moved his hands down his legs, crossing tubes on the way. That was where things got weird. There was exposed metal running down parallel with John’s legs, and a layer of bandage wrapped around the leg itself, wound between the pins protruding into his leg. 

“Smashed to bits,” John said. “They put in nine pins. It’s okay, I can’t feel anything what with all the drugs.”

“Could be worse,” Dean said, fiercely. “Sounds like the surgeons really pulled you through it.”

“And there’s gonna be more. They say it’s gonna take a whole lot of healing. PT. Maybe follow up surgery.”

“Sound expensive.”

There was a moment’s silence between them. “Dean…”

“Don’t bother. The doctor explained.” Dean straightened up, picking up his cane again from where he’d set it beside John. “I’m going to be your nurse. I mean honestly? I got better things to do with my time than clean up after you, Dad. I feel like I’ve been doing it my whole life already and now this...”

“There’s always your brother in Cali. I can go stay with him.”

“You—you keep Sammy the fuck out of this. He’s an attorney. A  _ junior partner _ . He doesn’t need your bullshit.”

“This isn’t all on you.”

“Oh shut it. It’s  _ always _ been on me. It’s been on me since you dropped it on me when I was a kid. It’s always been that way.”

Maybe if Dean could see he wouldn’t be so brave. But John had never hit him, and right now it wasn’t like he could even chase him across the room. Independence had afforded Dean security, and he had always needed it. He’d used it, too. He’d stood between his dad and his brother more often than he could remember as they argued, faced him without seeing him and known that his sightless glare would overpower John one way or another.

It had made him bold. It had made him a complete asshole, too, at least to his drunkard of a father. But Dean couldn’t tell whether this talk was about genuinely wanting to make it easier on him, or manipulating him into cooperating just so that John didn’t dump himself on Sam instead.

It had the same effect, either way.

“We’re gonna have to sell the house.”

“It’s your mother’s house.”

“It’s too big for you on your own, and you’re not going back to work any time soon. You can’t pay this off.”

“I have savings.”

“Bullshit.” Dean shook his head. “Anything you’ve earned you spent on booze and child support. My college fund, and Sammy’s? The money mom put away for us? You pissed it all up a wall already. And let’s not forget you ran off and had a secret family and a secret son—”

“I get it. _ I get it, _ Dean. We’ll discuss it, okay? We’ll get the money from somewhere.”

If Dean squeezed his cane any harder he was going to snap the damn thing in half. He was coming to an awful realization. He was going to have to live there, back in his childhood home; there was no other way. His trailer was hardly wheelchair accessible, and he couldn’t exactly commute back and forth, given he’d purposefully put up his wheels on the other side of town. He really did have to find out how long this convalescence was going to take, considering he’d be paying rent on his own empty place in the meantime.

Dean sighed and stood up. He couldn’t take much more of this, and besides, he’d jumped straight out of bed and he still needed to take a piss and drink some coffee. This was the rudest awakening he’d had since that winter day in ‘83 when an angel had burned away his sight.


	2. and my spirit is crying for leaving

It felt awkward walking home with Castiel beside him. Maybe it was the buzz of excitement, imagining what they’d do when they got back. Admittedly Dean was still a little bit terrified that his home wouldn’t be classy enough, that Cas would take one look at it and ditch him instantly, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that the more they talked, the more he sort of liked Castiel; liked him enough to want to impress him.

“Your mother read to you about angels?”

“Yeah. I mean I asked her to. Couldn't get enough of them for a while.”

“What changed?”

“She did. I mean she indulged me at first. I was only a kid, and I’d just lost my sight, so she would have given me anything I wanted. But it got harder for her when she started getting sick. I used to wish I could make it up to her, read to her instead…”

“What about Braille?”

“Are you kidding? Not like it comes cheap. They're better at audiobooks now, though, so that’s something. Who am I kidding? You don't wanna hear about any of this. It's not foreplay, it's just depressing.”

“Angels?”

“I grew up. What I used to comfort myself with that it was some kind of blessing… it got harder to feel that way. Then it got  _ really _ hard.”

Castiel squeezed his hand reassuringly. “It can be difficult to keep our faith when the very foundation of it is shaken.”

“You can say that again.”

“Why would I say it again?”

Dean snorted. “Never mind. We’re here.”

Unlocking the door, he pushed it open and climbed the single step to get inside. Castiel followed behind him, another physical body to contend with in his own private space. But that was what Dean wanted, what he desperately craved in order to forget his awful day.

He turned toward Castiel, placing both hands on the other man’s shoulders. Bold and deliberate he tested the different textiles of his outfit, running his fingers along the seams and folding his thumbs underneath the edge of the collars. When he was satisfied with the image he’d formed in his mind, he pushed the lapels of the overcoat back toward Castiel’s shoulders, felt him shift to cooperate with the coat’s removal.

“Aren't you going to play for me?” Castiel asked. He didn't sound nervous, only curious, as though determining the rules.

“Maybe afterwards,” Dean told him, biting his lip as he took the coat away. Without a word he hung it on the hook beside the door, then hung his own beside it. He made his way back to Cas’ side, relieved to find that he was waiting for him unmoving, his back against the closed door.

“What are you wearing?”

“A suit,” came Castiel's quite uninspired answer.

“Come on, you gotta give me more than that. Help me visualise it.”

“I… it’s a dark blue suit. The shirt is white. There's a tie.”

That caught Dean's attention. He grinned and found it again with the fingers of both hands. “What colour is it?”

“Blue.”

“The same as your eyes, I bet.”

Castiel's voice softened. He was becoming more comfortable, finding his footing in this experience, such as it was. For Dean, these were everyday challenges.

“Yes,” he said, “my eyes are blue. My hair is dark brown. I would describe myself as fair skinned, but compared to you…”

“Are you saying I’m pale?”

“It makes your freckles stand out, it's very attractive.”

“My what? I don't have  _ freckles _ .” Dean gave the tie in his hands a rough tug.

Castiel faltered. “I apologise for being the one to have to inform you, but it is the case.”

“I’m only screwing with you, Cas. I know I’ve got freckles. Come on, tell me more about you.”

“There isn't anything to tell.”

“I really doubt that. I mean come on, the least you can do is tell me the size of your dick.”

As he spoke, Dean led Castiel back across the room by his tie, moving confidently in his own personal space. He sat down on the edge of the bed, letting go of the tie and sliding his hands down Cas’ sides.

“Or I guess I could always find out for myself.”

“Wait. I want to slow down.”

“You want to stop?”

“Slow down, that’s all. I…”

“You want it to be special,” Dean guessed.

“It is. It is special. I just… Perhaps we could kiss first? I’d like to try that. It seems like it's probably an important step, and I don't want to miss it.”

“You haven't ever been kissed? Where have they been keeping you?”

“Please?”

Dean gave his head a shake to get rid of the cobwebs, and moved over on the bed to make room. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. We can totally make out first.”

God knew it had been some time since he’d last kissed anyone. Sex hadn't involved much kissing on the mouth for a while. Most of the time it didn't really need to.

Cas made it seem somehow completely alluring, an unmissable element in the whole affair, and also superbly innocent, even if Dean was imagining sticking his tongue in completely different places.

“At least let's get out of our shoes and pants. I don't wanna have to fight my way out of them when things get hotter.”

Castiel agreed, and side by side, elbows occasionally brushing, they stripped down to their underwear. Cas was still wearing his blazer when Dean touched his arm, but it would be easy enough to get him out of it later.

Clambering up to the head of the bed, Dean turned expectantly toward Castiel. The mattress shifted under his weight as the other man crawled to meet him, sitting up over Dean’s pillows with his back against the soft headboard. Dean could feel the way their combined weight pressed against it. He smiled.

“Come on, then. Where's this kiss?”

Tentatively - and it was tentative because Dean could feel it trembling - Castiel laid a hand against his jaw, thumb resting on the soft flesh of his cheek. He was beautifully affectionate, guiding Dean's face toward his own with only the lightest touch.

When their mouths touched, it was like being kissed by feathers, the most uncertain of sensations. Dean gave Cas time to find the confidence to go further himself. Sure, he could have pushed it, but it was sweeter this way, and besides Dean found it endearing that he was worried about breaking Castiel rather than the other way around.

Sure enough, though, once Cas seemed to know what he was doing, he was more than happy to put his whole weight behind it. He pressed their mouths together more firmly, and as the plush curve of his lips engaged, they parted, and Dean could taste sweetness on his tongue like candied cherries.

Cas’ tongue twisted against his own only when Dean showed him how, and it sent a fresh rush of delight through Dean to know that he really was kissing someone who never had kissed before. It was intoxicating, especially since it was so clear to him that Castiel was no spring chicken, the rough scratch of his scruff ever present between them.

He took advantage of their closeness, raising his free hand to explore Castiel’s face, taking his time mapping the lines on his brow, the slight cleft of his chin, the aquiline straightness of his nose. He was, Dean thought, probably quite conventionally handsome, which only made it that much more baffling that he’d never been kissed.

Nice teeth too.

Dean broke the kiss, pressing his hand lightly into the space between their mouths. He bumped his nose against Cas’ as they parted, a content smile already spreading across his face.

“I really needed that,” he admitted.

Castiel pulled far enough away that Dean was left guessing precisely where to look. The heat of his breath fell just out of reach, and Dean longed to pull him closer. Lifting his hand just that bit higher, he stroked his thumb across Cas’ brow, just between his eyes, then reached back into the inviting softness of his hair. It was pleasingly longer than he expected, particularly considering his experience of “dark brown” brought to mind the shade that his father’s hair had been.

It was difficult to remember that colors weren't just something he’d imagined.

Castiel’s eyes, he’d said, were blue. Dean wished he could see the shade, see the way they moved over his face when Dean turned Castiel's toward his own. They would sparkle brightly in the sunlight, blue sky inside a prism.

Like his mother’s eyes.

Hands brushed against his chest, catching Dean by surprise.

“Can I?”

Dean nodded in agreement, and Cas began a bold process of experimentation, pulling at the lapels of Dean’s shirt, then working the buttons open. Dean felt comfortable with the position, with letting Castiel have whatever he wanted. He was respectful, his fingers smooth where they touched his bare skin and pushed the fabric further aside. Dean had been woken abruptly, and he’d skipped his usual Henley, but now he was more than grateful for that. It was a lucky break, one less layer between him and the gorgeous, interested man gradually undressing him.

Then Castiel laid his hands flat against Dean’s ribs, and stopped completely. Dean was almost certain that he was just resting them there, watching as each of Dean’s careful breaths made Cas’ hands rise and fall. It was spellbinding. When Cas’ hands didn’t begin to move again, Dean was hesitant to question it, just because it felt so profound; so loving.

“You okay?”

“You’re so beautiful. A miracle.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dean answered. He could feel the prickle of warmth in his cheeks. He’d never been called ‘a miracle’ before. Those were words people saved for childbirth and double rainbows.

“You are. You should believe that. Life is a miracle, but you’re… Your soul is so bright.”

Dean didn’t know what to make of that either. His soul? But Cas was named after an angel, right, so he shouldn’t be surprised that he believed in souls and stuff. He decided just to roll with it—mostly because it was hella cute.

“Hey, dreamer. Are you just gonna look at me?”

Castiel didn’t make a sound, but after a moment he lowered his body, bent in closer so that his weight shifted on the bed. The tickle of his bangs whispered against Dean’s diaphragm a moment before Castiel’s lips touched down, ghosting at the top of his belly, working downwards intoxicatingly.

Dean twitched, and Castiel exhaled only breathless surprise, clearly moved by Dean’s ticklishness. His confidence seemed to build, then, warm thumbs circling while kisses lingered against Dean’s bare skin, working down past his navel, and then climbing back up, playing the xylophone of his ribs with delicate kisses.

“That’s good,” Dean cooed, pushing his fingers back through Castiel’s soft hair. “You’re doing good.”

And then it got better.

Dean hissed when Cas’ mouth closed around his nipple, offering just the lightest kiss. But his eager sound was enough to encourage Castiel to revisit his effort, tasting the bud with the flat of his tongue.

“Flick it,” Dean urged. It was excruciating. Cas was  _ there _ , but he had no idea what to do with himself. “Like. Um. Like you’ve got a snake tongue, you gotta flicker— _ fuck _ .”

Instruction suited Cas just fine. He didn’t get pissed that Dean was telling him what to do, either, he just  _ did it _ . His tongue moved quickly, flicking lightly across Dean’s nipple. Instantly it was hard, and his cock was making an eager effort to remind him what an enormous turn on that was.

Cas removed his mouth, exhaling wet and hot over Dean’s nipple. It made him vibrate with need, tipping his face up in a desperate desire to connect with the man above him. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on his face, could almost imagine his lips flushed pink and parted…

Another breath fell against his skin, offering only the slightest warning before Cas’ mouth closed over his other nipple. This time Dean groaned, raising his knees higher just so that he could dig his ankles into the blankets. His fingers knotted together at the back of Castiel’s neck, his thumb on the other man’s pulse, feeling the muscle moving as his tongue lathed and flickered and teased across his nipple.

When Cas broke away again, Dean was trembling, aroused more than he could stand, more than he’d ever been without actually doing something about it. Despite all that, Cas was still the sweetest company Dean had ever had, and he was loathe to push him too fast. The last thing he wanted to do was ruin him.

“Get back up here,” he urged, thumbnails pressing in underneath the lobes of Cas’ ears. “I need to kiss you.”

Castiel obliged. He wore a smile on his lips that Dean could taste, dragging his tongue along the curve of it and smiling his own back. He could almost ignore the urgency of his erection in favor of the smoky kiss, the soft and earnest affection that was pressed against his mouth.

Still, Castiel was more than one kind of breathless when the kiss ended. Dean could hear a hitching to his breath that would be difficult to mistake for anything but arousal. He loosened one hand from the back of Cas’ neck to explore, feeling his body tense above him as Dean’s fingers reached southwards. No sooner had his fingertips touched the waistband of Cas’ underwear than he was twitching his hips toward Dean’s fingers, proving in no uncertain terms that he wanted it just as much; that he was getting impatient.

“How’d you want to do this?” Dean asked. Maybe if he put the ball in Castiel’s court...

But Cas just shook his head. Dean felt the shaking all the way down his arm. “I don’t know… I… How do people usually do this?”

Dean hummed. “Honestly, it’s better if I just show you. But I don’t want you to freak out on me, okay? If there’s something you don’t understand, you gotta ask about it.”

Cas nodded. Under any other circumstances, Dean would have urged him to use his words, but the sensation of movement under his fingertips was enough.

“Okay,” Dean said, dropping his hands away. “First thing’s first, we gotta get you naked.”

He moved his hands undisputed to Castiel’s hips, and felt the other man shiver as he pushed his underwear down. The rush of musky scent into the heated space between their bodies was indication enough of Castiel’s arousal, but he gasped, too, at what Dean could only guess was the sensation of cool air on his hot erection. It was a gorgeous reaction, and Dean was already smiling again by the time he brought his hands to Cas’ shoulders, urging him to lie down on the bed.

“I got this, baby. Just you lie back and let me show you how the pros do it.”

When Castiel was properly positioned, sitting up with his back on the headboard, Dean navigated his way to the bedside cabinet. He reached in, pawing first over the string of condoms, only to mentally talk himself out of it. Virgin, right? Instead he curled deft fingers around the lube at the back of the drawer, and thumbed the two different plastic tops. One had been used a lot more often than the other. Dean curled the least used tube into his palm, feeling the weight of the liquid inside as he sat back on his haunches.

“This one’s for butt stuff,” he pointed out, shooting a shy smile at Cas as he stripped off his own underwear and repositioned himself between the other man’s open thighs. “You can touch yourself if you want to. If it’s… if you need to? I don’t want you to go off before we even get started, so if you need two gos at it I understand.”

“Two gos?”

Dean chewed his lip. “How about you just relax, and we’ll see how it goes?”

He was naked now, exposed, kneeling between another man’s naked thighs. He might not be able to see, but he could appreciate every part of the arrangement, the scratchiness of his own sheets under his knees, the heat of Castiel’s skin, the absolute focused attention. Cas was holding his breath, which didn’t surprise Dean much at all because he was holding his breath too, just to listen to him.

Squeezing the greasy lube onto his fingers, Dean perched himself up on his knees, reaching down past his erection without touching it. It had been a while since he’d done this—even longer since he’d last done it with an audience. Truthfully, though, there was something wonderful about spreading his legs to take another man’s cock, feeling the pull of it spreading him wider, knowing that the sensation would last for days. It made him feel more connected, somehow, to the world around him, like there were consequences to making an emotional connection with people. Considering how hard it was to get people to punch him, sex really was the next best thing.

Besides, walking into things  _ wasn’t _ fun, and Dean couldn’t force himself to do that, either. It was practically impossible—survival instinct, and all that.

So sex it was, then.

Reaching out one hand in front of him to get his balance, and placing it on the firm resistance of Castiel’s hip, Dean began the laborious process of spreading himself out with his fingers. It was awkward, but he could hear through the sharp intake of Castiel’s breath that it was doing something for his audience. His own racing heartbeat filled his ears, for all the effort he was putting into slowly exploring his body was getting the better of him.

Finally, biting his lip wasn’t enough to restrain his need to breathe, and the moment he began to pant, it made it harder to listen to the signals coming from the man beneath him. All he had was his touch, Castiel’s skin under his fingertips and Castiel’s hands curled possessively against his waist, holding him steady as he trembled.

“Dean.”

The low rumble of Castiel’s voice cut through everything else. Dean clung emotionally to that sound, let it anchor him, rocking his hips ever so slightly to bear down on his fingers. It was so frustrating. Even if he bent over at a ridiculous angle, he simply wouldn’t be able to bury them as deeply as he wanted them to go.

But, he supposed, that was what Cas was for.

“Dean… You’re so beautiful. I don’t… I don’t deserve this.”

Something about the honesty behind his voice broke Dean’s heart. There was guilt there, and Dean didn’t understand. Why would Castiel feel guilty? Just because he was a virgin, maybe, and didn’t know how to reciprocate?

It was definitely guilt, right, not pity? No. Fuck it. He was already naked with the guy, he wasn’t going to let himself worry that Cas was pitying his blindness, not when it had all gone so well so far. But he couldn’t help but let that anxiety creep in, frustrating as ever. He always felt so broken; even when everything was going perfectly his own insecurities crept in to undermine him when it came to having a nice thing, like the woman at the bar.

Cas, though, had been nothing but decent and pleasant to spend time with since they’d met. Dean couldn’t second guess this now.

He breathed out shakily, then pulled his hand away. Wrapped inside his own mind, lost in his own ever present inner monologue, it just so happened that if he didn’t get Cas inside him now, he was at risk of losing his erection. Hell, it had happened before.

“Shh,” Dean said, moving his other hand to Cas’ side, then stroking all over his chest, reminding himself of the body of the other man - the  _ willing  _ man - who was stretched out underneath him. “You deserve this, okay? I deserve this. I want this. You’re with me, aren’t you, Castiel?”

There was a pause. It could have been terrifying, but Dean could hear Cas licking his lips before he spoke. It was still nerve-wracking to wait for his answer.

“I’m with you,” Cas growled.

“Good. Okay, then. Here we go.”

Dean moved his hands down Castiel’s torso again, keeping contact with him, breaking away only for a moment so that he could pick up the lube again. It had moved slightly with the twisting bedsheets, but he found it after a moment of fumbling, curling his fingers around it. He breathed steadily, squeezing more out of the tube and then reaching for Cas’ cock. He missed the first time, leaving a dab of lube… well. He had no idea where he left it. Cas’ hand found his own a moment later, firm fingers guiding him until he was grasping Castiel’s erection, stroking lube generously across his cock.

“Thanks,” Dean breathed, without thinking.

“Of course,” Castiel answered, with genuine affection.

“How does that feel?” Dean asked. “You okay with this?”

Castiel didn’t answer the question. Instead he just moaned, softly. Out of nowhere, something splashed against Dean’s belly, and come - yup, that was come - dribbled cool over his fingertips. Cas’ hand was like a squeezing vice around his wrist.

For a second, Dean couldn’t believe it, but then he gave a burst of laughter, surprised and sort of relieved. His own problems suddenly didn’t seem so big any more. Castiel’s spontaneous orgasm took the pressure off.

Though he had to guess it was probably embarrassing for Cas, especially when Dean had just laughed in his face. He blushed, licking his lips nervously, and felt Castiel’s other hand curl around the first. Cas’ every breath was rocking the mattress beneath him, but he clearly had no intention of letting go. Dean could hear that his face was turned away, tipped back in pleasure, the sound of his breathing altered by the position.

Castiel was overwhelmed, and Dean found that so fucking beautiful that he had to smile, ducking his chin down toward his chest.

Eventually Cas let him go, and Dean relaxed his grip too, lifting his hand from Cas’ softened cock and reaching up, hunting out Castiel’s hands and finding them flopped in the sheets to either side of his body. Curling his own greasy fingers around Castiel’s left wrist, Dean moved closer, stretching out beside him to get his attention.

“Hey. It’s alright. It happens.”

Cas turned his head back toward him. “I know that. It’s… um… With friction…”

His voice sounded breathy, surprised, and Dean smiled apologetically. “It’s okay, baby, you don’t gotta talk. And it might take a while for you to uh… be ready to go again.”

“Again? We’re going to do that again? That— I don’t know if I can...”

Dean chuckled lightly, petting Castiel’s hand with his own. “Not right this second. Come on. You said you wanted to hear me play, right?”

“We’re naked,” Castiel pointed out.

“Of course. That way you can feel the music better.”

Castiel didn’t say anything, but Dean imagined that he was frowning, those eyebrows pulling together in the center in what was a very lived in expression. He’d felt the lines of it before, hiding away in the textures of Castiel’s face.

He smiled at himself, then shifted up off the bed. Naked and needy he might be, but he could wait. Besides, Cas would surely last longer next time. It would have been disappointing if Dean had sunk down on him only for Cas to orgasm instantly. Keeping hold of Cas’ hand, he urged him to come with.

“I’m coming,” Cas protested. And he had. He was.

On very shaky legs, Dean led the way across the room. His keyboard was set up facing the wide window at the end of the room. In the daytime, the light through the window would shine right on his face as he sat to play, the warmth of the sun giving texture to his world. He felt real when the sun shone on him, and resented the cloudy, cold days of winter. The curtains were drawn right now, but Dean reached out to check them anyway, dragging his fingers down the felted fabric. He breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that because he couldn’t see through the window, it didn’t mean other people couldn’t see in at him. He’d fallen foul of that once or twice, offending passerby who were less discreet about voicing their disgust.

He sat carefully on his chair, grimacing. His ass was wet on the plush leather surface. If he didn’t remember to clean that up later, it was going to leave one hell of a weird mess.

He clenched his cheeks together and reached his arm around Cas’ waist, holding onto him, guiding Cas down onto his lap. Castiel’s naked ass pressed up against his dick, and Dean swore, pressing the word ‘fuck’ into Castiel’s warm, muscular back.

“Are you okay?” Castiel said, his voice a vibration against Dean’s chest, skin moving under his mouth.

Dean dragged a kiss against the ridge of bone that made up one shoulder blade, and smiled against him. “Yeah. I’m good. Just relax. You’re not that heavy.”

Cas didn’t quite relax, despite the request. It was almost as though he didn’t know how, nervous no matter what Dean did.

Reaching around him, arm brushing Castiel’s waist intimately, Dean turned the keyboard on, pulled the headphone cable out, then settled back, testing the keys with his fingertips. There was a small ridge on the Major C that helped him orient himself, but he tapped the key anyway just to be sure, and to check that the volume was up far enough. The rich sound was too quiet, better serving Dean when he was practicing alone, but that was simple to fix.

With Castiel in his lap, and his arms around him, Dean began to play. It was one of his favorite compositions, a variation on Stairway to Heaven. Dean always got emotional playing it, which was why he avoided taking this particular version to the stage, but here in private he was more than happy to share the magic of the music with Castiel.

Halfway through, he pushed forward, finding the resistance of Cas’ body in front of him. He felt Castiel inhale through his entire chest, and with the impetus of that he plunged his hands down, poured his heart and soul into the instrument, electric music responding. Without the advantage of pedals, he had to put emphasis into the music with firmer cords and the energy of his body, but he could feel that Castiel could feel it— through every inch of their bodies, connected, he could feel that the fire of his performance was coming across. Castiel was carried along with him, breathing when Dean breathed, tensing when Dean tensed, and when the music had ended, and wet tears were burning Dean’s cheeks, he felt all of Castiel’s body moving as he twisted in his lap to face him.

Comforting fingers stroked across his cheeks, stroking his tears away. Cas’ breath fell light against his skin, and then kisses fluttered against his cheeks and his mouth, and Dean lifted his hands up from the keys, brushed them against Castiel’s hips, his shoulder, and curled them in the light strands of hair at the back of his neck. Only then did Castiel kiss him, long and deep and slow.

Somehow Dean didn’t feel vulnerable with Castiel kissing him. He felt strong, supported. The soft touches to his cheeks didn’t try to erase his tears entirely; it was almost as though Castiel were marveling in the shape of his face, touching him the same way that Dean had touched him when he’d explored his features before. He was so tactile, throughout the kiss, that it filled Dean with a fresh swell of emotion just to consider it—his stomach doing flips, his tongue working slowly against Cas’ as they embraced.

It went on like that for several blissful minutes, Dean with his eyes closed, drowning in the sensation, not needing to ignite his imagination so that he could piece together the things that he was missing. There was more than enough. Warm skin and warm hands, his own rushing heartbeat, soft lips, the thunderstorm smell of Castiel and the electric sharp scent of lube, the slight electric hum of the keyboard waiting for input, the light sensation of Castiel’s eyelashes as they beat like a bird’s wing against his cheek.

Dean breathed out the lungful he’d been holding as they broke apart, curling his fingers tighter so that Castiel couldn’t resist when he rested his forehead against the other man’s.

“That was…”

“Wonderful.”

“I was going to say earthmoving. That was a great kiss, Cas. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“Never.”

Dean sighed, a content, happy sound, and rubbed his nose against Castiel’s. He opened his eyes again to nothing, but that was okay. He had a body in his grip, comfortably warm, and he was in no danger of feeling lonely right now. If anything, he felt somehow more loved in this one night stand than he had from anyone but Sam in years.

“Shall we go back to bed now?” Dean asked. “Or do you want to hear some more?”

Castiel really seemed to hesitate, and Dean smiled affectionately. But he answered at last with “Bed,” and Dean was also grateful for that, pushing on Cas’ hips to urge him to get up, then grabbing his hand, letting Cas lead the way across the room again. He didn’t need the guidance, but it felt nice, and it was that much more reassurance that Cas was still into doing what Dean had been planning on all along.

Sure enough when they bumped back together beside the bed, it seemed like Cas was back in the game, ready and waiting. His erection bumped against Dean’s hip.

“How about you do the lube this time?” Dean asked, lightly. “Gently, okay?”

Castiel slid onto the bed. Dean stayed standing, listening to it creak, listening to the very slight sound of fingernails on the lube bottle and the lid being depressed. He heard Castiel take in a sharp breath as he touched himself, and couldn’t help but bite his own bottom lip, arousal once again filling his own body.

_ God damn he wished he could… _

No. No, that was the thing. Concentrate on the joy that came from what he could do— wasn’t that what everyone had always told him? Nobody felt the sun like he did, or heard those soft almost-not-there-at-all gasps, or understood quite the same tone of need as he did when Castiel said “Dean” again so desperately.

But if just for a moment he wished he could see the man sprawled on his bed with his hand around his cock, was that really so bad? If he yearned for something he couldn’t have… It wasn’t like people didn’t yearn for things they couldn’t have all the time. They all wanted to be billionaires and walk on the moon and sleep with supermodels.

This… This was all he fucking wanted. Just once. Maybe. It was a heartfelt need, and it was stupid -  _ stupid _ \- to desire it the way he wanted because people did become billionaires, and walk on the moon, and sleep with supermodels. Some people accomplished their dreams. His wasn’t something he could ever have, so what was the point wishing for it?

Damn it. It just wasn’t worth it to go down this path, to think this way. He had something special here, and he wasn’t going to waste it on fantasy.

Dean moved forward with intention, let the bed take his weight, and reached out to find Castiel exactly where he expected him to be. He stroked his hand over his knee, then reached across him to his hip, and crawled up into position on the bed, stretching out over him languidly, face tilted toward Castiel’s chest. He closed his eyes as he bent closer, dragging his mouth against warm, salty flesh. A little lower, and the salty taste of Cas’ come sparked against the tip of his tongue, the flavor of him intense even compared to the ozone scent and cozy warm cotton flavor of his skin. Dean sought out every hint of it that he could, deliberately flattening his tongue against it, until Castiel made a soft, needy sound that clearly implied Dean should get the hell on with it.

Pulling his own weight onto his arms, then repositioning himself over Castiel again, Dean reached down to find Castiel’s left arm, followed along it to the hand that curled around his erection, and exhaled as he shifted his own body to match.

He removed his hands once Cas’ head was nudging against his hole, reaching around himself to pull at his own cheeks, spreading his ass wider so that with the slightest movement down he was able to smoothly pop the whole of the head of Castiel’s cock inside him.

In response, Castiel whimpered beautifully. He was  _ so soft _ , and Dean wanted to reach down and gather him up, coo and reassure him, but if he did that he wouldn’t get to appreciate this as much as he did, holding himself open and rocking his hips back and forth, taking more and more of Cas down. He wasn’t quite seated when Cas’ arms wrapped around his back, and Dean sighed in relief as he was encouraged forward. They rested close to each other, but not too close, breathless, but not - at least for now - spontaneously orgasming. It was good.

Dean propped himself up on his elbows, his forehead ducking down toward Castiel’s collarbone, then rolled his hips. The sensation was sublime. It had been so, so long since he’d had sex with a man, longer since he’d had sex like this, and he’d forgotten how damn good it felt to be in control of every twitch of his hips, to be master over every inch of slippery, sliding sensation.

He lifted his head, bumping his chin against Castiel’s skin. “I need you to touch me. If you don’t touch me, I’m never going to be able to keep up.”

Castiel didn’t respond in so many words. Instead he made a garbled noise in his throat as Dean pushed back down, taking more of his cock inside him, and Dean had to reach to steady the other man, wrapping his hand around Castiel’s wrist and guiding it between his legs.

“You can do this. Just stroke me. Do it gently, but do it faster than my thrusts.”

Castiel obeyed, and Dean supposed he’d have to live with that. He’d probably nodded, too, but he wasn’t going to complain that Cas wasn’t communicating with him when his entire body was yearning for Dean’s own, when his free hand wrung at the back of Dean’s neck, and his slippery fingers flew quickly and pleasantly over Dean’s already dripping cock.

Dean moved in earnest. He could have stretched this out into slow lovemaking, but his body felt electric now, and it wasn’t possible to slow down when he felt so damn good moving. He began to buck his hips, rolling and grinding, Cas’ cock sliding in and out of his own tight hole while Dean struggled just to keep enough air. His muscles began to ache, then burn, but Dean pushed through it. He wouldn’t be slowed down, and Cas kept tugging on his cock, just as Dean had told him too, doubling the speed of Dean’s thrusts and matching the increase in pace as Dean moved faster and faster.

He could only guess that his cock was leaking over Castiel’s stomach by now. He was so close. And then he sensed it, the twitching of Castiel’s dick, the tightening that came before orgasm, then the pressure, the sudden increase in sensation as he came inside him, cock twitching, head huge and swollen as he spilled and spilled again each time Dean thrust back.

It didn’t take much more than feeling Castiel come inside him for Dean to find himself crashing over the edge too. He cried out when he came, the sensation explosive, projecting out of him wildly, his balls tightening, his dick twitching with every movement he made. Cas’ fist was still wrapped tight around his cock, but it relaxed slowly, then sort of hovered there between their bodies, presumably wet with Dean’s come. Dean hovered over it too, resisting the urge to just collapse his weight down on Castiel despite every inch of his body screaming for him to do so.

Eventually, though, he pulled off, sank down onto one hip beside Cas, then exhaled all in a rush, nuzzling right into Castiel’s shoulder.

The other man didn’t move. When Dean reached out inquisitive fingers, he found Cas still holding his hand in midair, as though unsure what to do with it.

“You can always lick it off,” he suggested, sleepily.

He dropped his hand down onto Cas’ chest. At once, he felt movement, the muscles across Castiel’s chest moving as he… did something. Dean could guess what it was, and he laughed softly, reaching up to grab Cas’ hand. It took two tries to get his hand around Cas’ wrist, dragging it closer, scenting across his skin before curling an experimental tongue around… Ah, let’s see... His  _ index _ finger. Dean sucked at the strong, unique flavor of his own come on Castiel’s hand. It was mixed with the powerful chemical flavor of the lube, and not very appealing at all, and he scrunched up his nose.

“That’s not great, is it?”

No answer from Castiel. Instead, Dean dragged Cas’ hand down to his own hip and moved it up and down until Cas opened his fingers and willingly wiped his hand off on Dean’s skin.

“We’re both pretty dirty already, Cas. We’re going to have to shower and change the sheets no matter what, might as well get used to it.”

Dean could have sworn Cas just said “Oh” to that, and he smiled, rubbing his face deeper into Cas’ neck and exhaling softly against his skin. He embraced the sensation of exhaustion pulling in around him, the weight of adrenaline bottoming out sure to drag him into unconsciousness. Right now, even if it was only for an hour or two, all he wanted was to sleep beside Castiel.

“You’ll be here in the morning, won’t you?” he mumbled, softly. “You’re not going to go without saying goodbye?”

Truthfully, the last thing Dean wanted was to say goodbye to Cas. He wanted Castiel to call him every day, even if they never saw each other again. He wanted companionship, and to be able to come back to something like this, but God knew people didn’t need to deal with all his issues, and when his dad came back from the hospital, his social life was going to be even more fucked than usual.

People didn’t exactly see him as long term relationship material. They found it hard to fathom living with him in the strict world regime that made his life easier. They left their clothes on the floor when they were in a hurry and always put their coffee cups in different places. They imagined the perhaps one day father of their child taking them to Disneyland and pointing out all the different characters, or ice skating, or driving them to soccer practice.

Dean didn’t expect Cas to want to have anything else to do with him any more than he did anyone he’d taken to his bed, but he was lonely, and the soothing fingers in his hair as Cas turned on the bed to spoon against him were just as loving as the brush of thumbs against his tear streaked cheeks when he’d finished playing Led Zeppelin.

Castiel was a ray of sunshine, warming him, and Dean wanted to plead with him, tell him that Dean  _ felt that warmth _ so much more than anyone, more than any future partner Cas would ever have. But part of him, too, the guilty, painful part of him, told him that that wouldn’t be fair. Castiel had somewhere else to be, and Dean was a burden, wasn’t he?

Yes, it was self deprecating, but Dean couldn’t help it. Hot guys didn’t stay with you. Your dad never sobered up. Miracles didn’t happen. Dean was used to the world as it was, and his occasional wish that it wasn’t that way… well, what was it worth? Nothing. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride.

But wishes weren’t horses. Cas would leave, and Dean would never see him again, and he’d be grateful for that, because Cas wouldn’t have to see him slowly lose his mind while his father mixed hooch and painkillers, or watch Dean’s disappointment pass across his face, out for the world to see even though Dean couldn’t, when he handed over the keys to his family home to some faceless stranger. It was better that he was gone.

So long as he said goodbye first. Dean squeezed him tight just to make his point. Cas couldn’t leave without Dean letting him go, right? So what if he just didn’t let go?

His thoughts tangled around each other until sleep tugged him under its spell, from darkness into darkness, and he slept.

And when he slept, he dreamed.


	3. in my thoughts I have seen rings of smoke through the trees

The dream was more vibrant than anything Dean had ever known, and while he had dreamed visually his entire life, this was an entirely different experience.

Everything was gorgeous, bright colors and strong clear lines. The sunshine shone through the open drapes into Dean’s small, pristine home just the way he’d always imagined it would. The room was laid out as he knew it, coffee machine on the corner of the counter, stove, kitchen counter, ugly velvet drapes, and while the colors didn’t quite match in places, that only made Dean smile, because he’d imagined things might be incongruent, even though he’d petitioned for Sam’s help putting it all in order.

 

It was a bachelor’s pad, after all. It was supposed to be sexy, and matching orange and red was far from sexy.

This was just a dream, of course, but Dean found relief in the lack of red and orange things.

_ Red and orange _ . He could see them! He could see colors, so many damn colors, shades of colors, depths of colors, a damn flicker of a rainbow crystallizing through the diamond shaped bottle glass windows on his front door. Light shone through the two unbreakable tumblers on the windowsill above the sink. Stainless silver fittings shone—though perhaps even then they had been dulled by years, it wasn’t like Dean polished anything. Why would he?

The covers on his bed were a dark blue, just as Sam had told him they were when they’d bought six identical sets at once from the store. Dean turned his head, noticing at once the trench coat hanging on the coat hook beside his own dark brown leather jacket. It was tan colored, just as it had been described to him. He touched his fingers to the fabric and felt the familiar texture as well, so strong a familiarity that it was hard to reconcile that this was a dream.

He never, ever dreamed like this, and he felt… lucid. What was happening to him? Had he had such a good fuck that he’d literally gone to Heaven?

And then, out of the shower, stepped a raven haired, blue eyed man with an aquiline nose, a towel wrapped around his waist, still dripping wet with tiny raindrops of clean water, and every inch of him gorgeous and familiar. Dean let his eyes drift downward, admiring the way the towel dropped off his hip bones, exposing almost  _ too _ far.

Definitely Heaven.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean swallowed, and for a moment he found himself looking down for no reason, sort of dazzled by the appearance of his own naked toes. They were strong, grown up feet, with a dusting of hair over the back of his toes. Somehow, his own naked body suddenly became supremely interesting, because of course Dean had never seen it before. When he did dream about his body - and woke up able to remember those dreams - he was always a child— but this was different.

He wiggled his hairy toes.

Castiel’s voice snapped his attention back up. “You’re dreaming.”

“I— yeah, I know. How do  _ you _ know that?”

Castiel didn’t answer the question straight away. Instead he came closer, looking up into Dean’s eyes. Up close the blue of Castiel’s was so crystal clear, so beautiful that it took Dean’s breath away.

“Perhaps we’re sharing a dream, you and I,” he proposed. “Isn’t that what happens when people sleep side by side?”

Dean frowned. It sounded like good dream logic, come to think of it. So when Castiel reached for Dean’s hands, and lifted them to his face, Dean marveled at the sensation, incredulous as he watched his own hands track over Castiel’s features. Castiel’s eyes closed as Dean ran his thumbs across them, then opened as he rested his hands gently against the other man’s cheeks.

It was too good to be true. But then it  _ was _ a fantasy; a dream. Why not enjoy it? Dean bent in and brushed his lips against Castiel’s, keeping his own eyes open the entire time. He was afraid that, if he closed them, he might open his eyes to darkness again— awake; or, worse, still dreaming and not able to tell.

Cas didn’t vanish, though. He didn’t vanish even as Dean stepped back, watching his own hands sliding against his bare skin, descending Castiel’s naked chest boldly. Dean pushed his fingers back across those incredible, elegant hips, and tugged at the towel ever so gently with his thumbs. It provided just enough pressure that the loose knot Castiel had tied instantly came undone, and the towel tumbled to the ground, leaving him as naked as Dean was, freshly clean, slightly damp, and utterly gorgeous.

He was beautiful, and Dean drank in the sight of him before he straightened back up. It just felt so real, so impossibly real. “Are you sure you’re not an angel?”

Castiel didn’t answer. He took hold of Dean’s hands where they’d stalled on his hips, guiding him back one step at a time, leading the way over to the bed. When they tumbled down on it Dean finally gasped in a sharp breath, and it chased away the tight feeling in his chest that verged almost on panic.

“It’s so real.”

He couldn’t help but stare into Castiel’s face that much more, would have stayed there, staring into his eyes, if the other man hadn’t teased fingers between them and wrapped his fist insistently around his cock, gripping so tight that Dean trembled almost to the tips of his toes. Any further words he could have made came out as a gargle of twisted noise. Castiel bent up and kissed a smile against his mouth. This time Dean saw it as well as felt it, a flash of white teeth dazzling in the golden glow of morning sunlight.

Those teeth then caught against the column of his throat, capturing the vibrations of Dean’s moan as Cas teased his cockhead with the hard, flat edge of his fingernail. Castiel was relentless, teasing until Dean could barely stand it any more, pushing his hands against Cas’ hips and lifting himself back up, putting thirty degrees of space between them.

Once more, he was so stunned by the sight he practically forgot what he was doing. Castiel helped him out, though, shifting his muscular thighs, curling his body tighter into the space between them, his legs spread wide in invitation. His hands found new purchase on Dean’s back, holding tight just behind the curve of his ribs.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?” Dean asked, unable to keep from staring. He ached from how hard he was, and the invitation was overwhelming, but all he wanted to do was look at  _ everything _ . He wanted to know every inch of Cas’ skin, see the things in his room he’d never looked at. God— see his little brother’s face, all grown up…

Hot tears were suddenly biting at Dean’s eyes. Castiel looked alarmed beneath him, and one hand found his cheek, stroking at the tears.

“Isn’t— isn’t this what you wanted?

Dean’s throat tightened, and he found himself pulling away, tugging free from Castiel’s grip and moving toward the edge of the bed. Everything was still so vibrant, but it blurred together through the swirl of tears, and Dean found himself staring through them in misery, despairing at how real it all was. Why didn’t he have a picture of Sam anywhere in the house? It might have just been a dream, but it was all he wanted, now. One picture. If it had only been there, he’d have dreamed it…

Castiel’s hand settled on his shoulder, and then his body wrapped around him, close and warm, the thrum of his chest vibrating against Dean’s back as he spoke. His voice was low, and flowed like molten lava, so comforting that Dean hardly knew what to do with it.

“If I could give you back your sight, I would.”

“It’s not your fault,” Dean answered, through a scratchy sob. “It’s not. But all of this? It’s too much. Knowing I’m going to wake up and it’s all going to be gone…”

Castiel sighed, brushed a kiss against Dean’s neck, and rubbed his stubbled cheek against his skin. Dean felt every inhale, every exhale, every heartbeat. He had closed his eyes again.

 

\-----

 

Cas knocked all the air out of his lungs when he threw Dean on his back. Startled, he opened his eyes again to find the other man looming over him, stern blue eyes piercing beneath the frown that Dean had known by touch alone..

“You have a gift, Dean. I know it may not seem like it, but you do. A thousand other men will see ten thousand sunsets and never know the wonder of it. They  _ cannot _ know it. But you can. You do. Together we can watch them all. We can touch the stars, and see creation unfold. I’ll show you whatever you want, whatever you need. I’ll give you the world, Dean. I owe you that much.”

Dean blinked furiously at the tears in his eyes, just to get a clearer view of the man above him. He didn’t care if he saw it better, not really. This granted wish came with a sting in its tail. It was only a dream, and Dean wanted to  _ see _ . Somehow giving it back to him had raised that old bitterness back up in him, reminding him of the unfairness of it all.

“But only in my dreams?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Then what use are you?”

Cas frowned. “What?”

Dean glared up at him and repeated himself, shoving at Cas’ shoulders to push him away. “What use are you? Dreams fade. They aren’t memories. The second I wake up, I’m going to forget it all, so what’s the point? What’s the point of making me feel this way in the first place?”

“You won’t,” Castiel answered, holding his ground.

Now it was Dean’s turn to frown. “What?”

“You won’t forget.”

“Of course I will.”

Cas sighed, reluctantly sitting back on Dean’s hips, and Dean moved his hands to start shoving at Castiel’s knees instead. “This is a ridiculous argument. I can’t prove it to you until you wake up.”

“And if I’m right?”

“Then you’ll forget it anyway.”

“But I’ll still end up feeling like this was a nightmare,” Dean groused.

“I can fix that for you,” murmured Cas. “If only you’ll stop fighting me.”

Dean didn’t realize it was a threat. At once there was a rush of color, and they were suddenly hundreds of miles above the earth, spinning in space, and Dean grabbed for Cas, practically climbing up his body while at the same time twisting around to try and see, holding on for dear life.

“ _ What did you do?! _ ” he cried, and then he held his breath, clutching the hand of the arm that he’d wrapped around Castiel’s neck to his own mouth, as though that would stop him from suffocating far above the atmosphere.

“I told you that we could touch the stars. I thought we’d start a little lower than that.”

“A little— a little  _ lower?”  _ Dean spluttered. “Put me down! I hate flying, Cas! I hate it when I  _ can’t _ see! Put me down!”

Light swirled around them again, and Dean was suddenly naked on his back in something soft and slightly wet, the scent of crushed grass all around them, a light breeze swaying the leafy boughs of trees against the blue sky behind Castiel’s head.

“Better?” Cas asked.

 

”You’re _crazy_!” Dean snapped, but there was much less vitriol to it this time. He wasn't pushing quite as hard anymore, wasn’t resisting quite as much. His heart was still racing, but on the other hand he’d stopped crying, and there was still one hell of a naked body slotted up against his own.

 

Alright… this wasn’t so bad. He could enjoy this dream, too. Dean looked down between them, then back up again. Cas was right there, and they weren’t floating around in space or whatever. This was pretty;  _ he _ was pretty. Okay, so maybe he could let Cas in just a little bit, let Cas win just a little. Maybe he’d get a victory of his own out of it as well.

 

Castiel smiled, as though he recognised that Dean was changing his mind, and almost at once lips were crashing against Dean’s own, soft and eager.

 

Dean answered with his own interest, rising into Castiel’s embrace. It was strange kissing someone else this close, seeing their face— or well, perhaps not. Dean couldn’t focus, and as the kiss drifted, he closed his eyes despite himself, soaking himself in the sensation. He wasn’t missing anything until the kiss parted, until he was looking at Castiel’s plump, freshly kissed mouth, his flushed cheeks and the deep black of his blown pupils.

 

This man was gorgeous and seeing him— being able to see him made his heart soar and ache at the same time.

 

Castiel didn’t leave him to wait too long, didn’t leave him to think too hard on his regret. At once, the kiss engaged again, and Castiel drowned him in his kiss, rained affection down on him. Warm, eager hands stroked over his sides, skin against bare skin. They ground together, hip to hip, and Dean found himself gasping against Castiel’s mouth, panting and eager.

 

Fingers found Dean’s cock unexpectedly, but this time Dean was half hard, needy, and he reached for Castiel’s shoulders, gripping tight so that he could pull against Cas as he bucked his hips.

 

“I want to do this for you,” Castiel murmured. “Like you did for me.”

 

Dean made a soft, needy noise. He knew precisely what Cas was proposing, what Castiel wanted to do, and why not? It was a dream, it wasn’t like he could hurt a lover in his dreams.

 

So when Castiel shifted forward, then up, sitting over his hips and already beautifully aroused, Dean didn’t complain. There was no need to warn him that it would hurt, that it could ache.

 

To his surprise, though, Castiel had lube in hand, as though you really needed lube in dreams. He eagerly stroked it across Dean’s cock, and then he was adjusting himself, lowering himself steadily, right down on top of him. Castiel hissed, ducking his head until it was almost at Dean’s shoulder, and Dean found himself staring at the side of Castiel’s face, admiring the detail there, the parting of his lips, the gorgeous tightening of his mouth and furrowing of his brow.

 

Dean squeezed his hands around Castiel’s shoulders, reassuring him.

 

“It’s okay,” he said. “This is crazy. You’ve never done this before, you should have let me take care of you.”

 

“You can take care of me,” Castiel agreed. “When this is real, you can take care of me.”

 

Dean bit his lip. Just a dream. Still, what an incredible dream, looking at this handsome face twisted in strained arousal, and being able to look down between his body and Castiel’s, where he was being swallowed up, piercing Castiel’s body; plundering his heat.

 

Somehow all Dean wanted to do was watch. He wanted to see his cock slipping in and out of Castiel. He wanted to watch thick thighs tense and ripple as Cas moved over him, as he bucked and rode him. He wanted to watch his belly pull and tense. He wanted to admire Cas’ face, his lips parted, his skin flushed, his eyes so beautifully blue and full of a strange, unfamiliar kind of adoration.

 

Dean let his hands slip down from Castiel’s shoulder, pushing against his chest where Cas was sagging.

 

“Sit up. You got this, Cas.”

 

Castiel let Dean push him upright, and Dean followed up onto his elbows so that he had a better angle. It wasn’t a natural position for him. Usually he’d lay on his back. He’d touch his partner, or he’d take over. But there was so much to see he couldn’t stand to look away, not even for a second.

 

Castiel was haloed by the beautiful blue sky above him, a spattering of prong shaped sycamore leaves swaying in the light breeze sending soft shadows dancing over them both. The grass they lay in was slightly wet, and a mixture of different greens. Dean knew, of course, that grass was not all the simple spiky green stuff he’d drawn as a child, but he could see the different plants in it now, the small purple nubs of daisies and white, frothy heads of clover.

 

But it was Cas—Cas drew the entirety of his focus, so powerful and stunning; the angelic Castiel. Sex was heat and tension, skin on skin and heartbeats and breath, but he had never watched another person move like this, the way that Castiel’s bottom lip trembled at the apex of each thrust, the tightening and stretching of muscles that Dean didn’t even have names for. Everything was so beautifully interwoven.

 

Yet, somehow, he longed for darkness, as though he were missing out on something; for the anticipation before tentative fingers ploughed along his skin, for the gorgeous, wicked loudness of each hitch of Castiel’s breath. Perhaps, if Cas wasn’t in too much of a hurry to leave, or hadn’t left already the moment it was polite to, he’d draw more of those noises out of him, and enjoy them then. In reality.

 

Castiel groaned above him, his thighs trembling with effort, and Dean knew it was time to take over. He pushed upward, gently rolling them both over, even though his cock slipped free in the process, but he wanted to watch Castiel come, and even if he could get a better angle from pushing him down into the grass face first - not something he’d usually hesitate to do with another partner - he was determined to enjoy everything about this while he could. He pushed Castiel’s knees up, spread his legs wide, then looked down between their bodies as he wrapped his hand around himself, guiding himself into position.

 

This time he watched. He watched as the dark, swollen head of his erection dipped back inside, felt the link between sensation and sight as inch upon inch pierced Castiel’s tight body. By the time he was seated, Dean had his nose almost right up against Castiel’s chest, hot breath tumbling against the other man’s skin.

 

When he looked back up - and how could he not? - Cas was staring at him with a strange expression, his brow furrowed and his eyes as wide as they could go, as though to take him all in. Maybe all people looked at him like this when they were doing the do, Dean thought, but he wasn’t sure he believed it. Cas looked...adoring, and somehow lost as well, and Dean wanted to reach out and beg him, ask him why, which was stranger still for a sex dream, but it felt like he was missing something.

 

Just as he was about to balk again, Castiel clutched at his shoulders and pulled him back in, looking at him imploringly.

 

“I just want you, Dean. Please. This feels… I want you to make love to me.”

 

It wasn’t easy. Eye to eye with Cas, looking into his face, seeing him, it felt like Dean was stripped raw and exposed. It felt like he could, perhaps, be doing everything wrong, seeing wrong, somehow, an imposter to all of this and somehow unworthy. Dean found himself shying from the scrutiny, but there was nowhere to go. 

 

Instead Dean tried to concentrate on the incredible pleasure uncoiling between them, picking up the speed of his thrusts. At some point his interest in his surroundings was ebbing as the pleasure spiraled, somehow tighter and tighter like a corkscrew into his belly. The sensation of arousal was no different. Good sex didn’t feel any different, just because he could see.

 

It was another thing to glance down and see Castiel grab his own cock, stroking himself in time with Dean’s ever rougher thrusts, to watch Castiel come undone inch by incremental inch. When Castiel at last reached orgasm, Dean more than felt it, though the sensation of a muscular body clenching around him was more than familiar. Watching him, though, was something to treasure, watching his lips part and his throat bob as he swallowed and gasped and moaned.

 

Dean came back to the sensations eventually. They were the things which got him off. Castiel’s moans still came down through his body in rumbling vibration, and his muscular body still trembled around him as he shook through his orgasm. Hearing his voice break, feeling the damp splash of Castiel’s come as it splattered across them both was more than enough to satisfy any itch that Dean had. He kept moving while Cas tightened around him and called his name, and within moments Dean was coming too, spilling himself inside the other man with desperate twitches of his hips.

 

He sank down toward one side so that he didn’t crush Castiel, but Cas wound deliberately around him, pulling Dean close so that he couldn’t resist, a knot of limbs damp with sweat. Cas didn’t look too flushed, actually, or even that sweaty, but his skin was warm and that was all that mattered. Cas invited, and Dean spooned further into him, huffing hot against Castiel’s neck.

 

Their heavy breathing slowed, and Dean rubbed his face against Castiel’s skin, sighing as fingers slid into his hair. It felt good—so good, and so warm, and Dean didn’t want to let Cas go. He didn’t want it to end.

 

And then:

 

“I love you, Dean,”

 

It wasn’t what he expected to hear, but Dean didn’t complain. Somehow he was drifting, and the darkness was pulling in, and no—no! He didn’t want to wake up yet! He wanted to memorize every inch of Castiel’s face before it disappeared forever, before it slipped away as all dreams did!

 

Dean startled awake in a panic, startled into strong, firm arms that were wrapped tightly around his body, and relaxed when he caught and recognized Castiel’s very unique ozone scent. The man growled his name, and, feeling it in his bones, Dean relaxed slowly, reaching for the dream, desperately working the details over in his mind. Castiel’s face…

 

“I don’t want to forget,” Dean begged, softly. “I don’t want to forget.”

 

“You won’t,” Cas murmured softly, reaching up, teasing his fingers through Dean’s hair just as he had in the dream. Maybe Dean had been able to feel it…

 

“I don’t want to forget,” Dean repeated, one more time. There was an odd pull, strange, like he was being drawn toward sleep despite his panic. “Please.”

 

“It’s okay. Sleep, Dean. It’ll be there in the morning. I’ll be here.”

 

Reluctantly, and yet somehow still despite his efforts to the contrary, Dean slipped back into a dreamless sleep.


	4. ooh and it makes me wonder...

**4x03: The Beginning**

 

**“...I couldn’t stop any of it. She still made the deal. She still died in the nursery, didn’t she?”**

 

**“Don’t be too hard on yourself. You couldn’t have stopped it.”**

 

**“What?”**

 

**“Destiny can’t be changed, Dean. All roads lead to the same destination.”**

  
  
\-----

 

“You talk a lot of crap, Cas. You talked about—about making a difference, about saving the world or whatever, fighting Michael. But none of this...none of this would be happening at all if you’d just go back and change it. You could change it, like Anna tried to.”

 

“This was your destiny, Dean. I told you then, but it’s still true. Nothing has changed. We would still be here, and your brother would still be possessed and I would still be....”

 

“Then what’s the point of free will at all, huh? What’s the point of any of it? It’s bullshit, Cas. Either we can decide or we can’t. Maybe that’s what it takes. Maybe the only way to fix this is for you to go back and...and do something.  _ Do something _ , Cas.”

 

Castiel looked across at Dean sadly, but he said nothing.

 

“Don’t you get it?” Dean pressed, bitterly. “I’ve seen this. I’ve seen all of this, where it leads. You lose your powers, and I get old and sad and we hate each other a little bit, and love each other a little bit too, and you know what? We all die. You’re miserable, and you die for me, and I can’t—I can’t watch it happen, knowing where it’s gonna lead. We need to do this another way. We have to do something different, and why not right at the beginning, right where it started?”

 

They sat in silence. Castiel didn’t know the depths of what Dean had seen in the Zachariah’s manipulative specter of a future world. He knew it had been painful, but not a great deal more, and he’d already learned to respect the boundaries of Dean’s mind. He could see the emotional burden this put on him. Whatever Zachariah had shown him was potent and agonizing.

 

At last, after what felt like an eternity, Cas spoke again:

 

“I don’t have enough power to take you too.”

 

“Doesn’t matter. If you change it I’ll, like, cease to exist or something, like Marty in Back to the Future. I’m sorta okay with that.”

 

Cas frowned, dejected. “Yet you expect me to be?”

 

“You’ll be fine,” Dean said, softly. “I mean I guess...if you never save me from Hell, I’m never gonna change you, but that’s…”

 

“I can stay,” Castiel said. “In the past. I can stay with you, watch you grow…”

 

Dean smiled, wryly. “My own guardian angel.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said, softly. “I’m sorry it came to this. About Sam. I failed you.”

 

Dean reached up and clapped his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, then squeezed it. “You’re the best weird friend a guy could have asked for, Cas. Without you I’d have thrown in the towel ages ago. I owe you, man. I…”

 

Placing his own hand on top of Dean’s, Cas silenced him with a look. “And I wouldn’t be the… I wouldn’t be who I am without you. The others would call that a flaw in my character, but I have been a better angel because of you.”

 

“A better  _ man _ , Cas.”

 

The silence stretched again, and Castiel left without saying goodbye.

 

\-----

  
  


In a small nursery in the Kansas town of Lawrence, Sam Winchester was awake and fidgeting. The nursery window was open, and the wind was making the drapes undulate. He kicked his tiny feet, sending the thin knitted blanket away from his tubby, round body, and he squealed in delight at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. 

 

When the man appeared above the cot, Sam blinked his eyes wider and stared up at him. It didn’t matter who he was, because he was speaking just to Sam, and the soft, rhythmic tone of his voice was suitably comforting.

 

Castiel wasn’t so comforted by Azazel, but then it was hard to find a Prince of Hell at all pleasant, and certainly not at all pleasing to look at. The oozing black distortion of his spirit corrupted everything, seeped out into the vessel he’d stolen. He was about to spread that poison further, drip blood into Sam’s mouth and seal his fate.

 

Not today.

 

Today, Castiel arrived in the nursery with great flourish, positioning himself between Azazel and the cot. He spread his wings, shining and fierce, displaying his grace fiercely. He  _ shone  _ with divine intent, and Azazel buckled and stepped back.

 

“You can’t be here,” growled the Yellow Eyed Demon. “Nobody’s seen an angel for centuries, why would you be  _ here _ ?”

 

“It’s none of your concern.”

 

Azazel scoffed. “You’re protecting these kids. But what’s so special about these kids, hm?” The demon took a big sniff, as though he could work it out, but all he did was scowl deeper at Castiel. “You’re not from around here.”

 

“I know your plans. All of them. If it is still your will to continue your scheming unabused by Heaven, then these children are protected. Or…? I can tell them everything...”

 

“I don’t make deals with angels,” Azazel snarled.

 

“You have other children.”

 

“Don’t get me wrong, Feathers, but it’s a matter of principle.”

 

\-----

  
  


Dean was sure he could hear talking through his bedroom wall. He stirred, clambering out of bed, dropping his bare feet onto the carpet. Rubbing his eyes, he made his way across his room in the dark, then looked out into the hallway. He could hear the television downstairs distinctly, but there was no doubt now that there were strangers speaking in Sammy’s room.

 

Following the sound of the voices, Dean made his way down to the next door. It was slightly open, and he pushed on it gently. Dad had oiled it recently, so that he and Mary could pad in with Sam and lay him down in the crib without making a sound.

 

Two men were standing over Sammy. Dean could see him through the bars on the crib, awake and kicking in that way that Dean knew meant his brother wanted to be picked up. But the men weren’t picking Sam up, and besides, there weren’t meant to be strange men in his house at all, he was pretty sure. It seemed like something his parents wouldn’t approve of.

 

But then the man with the strange gold eyes leapt at the man in the coat, attacked him, and just as Dean was gasping to scream for his mother, the man in the coat began to glow whiter and whiter, and Dean swore he could see four great white wings spreading out around his body, rings of fire circling him, the shape of animal heads flickering in the man’s outline—

 

All of a sudden the white light flew outward, and Dean felt the carpet in the hallway fly up to meet him as the light exploded out through the door, taking him with it. But the light was in him—it had burrowed in and it was burning, and Dean was screaming, grabbing at his face and  _ screaming and crying _ . It hurt more than anything; it hurt more than that time he’d fallen over in the road and grazed his knee.

 

He screamed and screamed, and suddenly his father was scooping him up, strong arms pulling at Dean’s hands so that he could look.

 

But Dean could no longer look back.

 

He would never see his father’s face again.

 

\-----

 

Dean didn’t know quite what to do with what he’d just learned. He stumbled back out of the hospital in a daze, following the barely familiar route back to the elevator, almost dropping his cane twice thanks to shaking in his hands. His knees weren’t much better, and it was a different kind of miracle that he made it out into the fresh air before he fell down. An arm wrapped around him, however, right at the last second, and Dean sighed in relief.

 

“Cas. Hey. You… you won’t believe it.”

 

Castiel said nothing, so Dean just held on as he was half-led, half-carried away from the hospital entrance, down a long arching slope and then to a bench. Dean sat down, relieved to get off his wobbly legs.

 

“There. Now you can tell me what has you so shaken up. Is your father okay?”

 

Dean gave a wry, disbelieving laugh.

 

“What?” Cas pressed.

 

“Okay. Is he  _ okay _ ? He’s damn well… He’s  _ fine _ .”

 

“That’s wonderful,” interjected Cas.

 

“No, you don’t get it.  _ He’s fine _ . Like no pins in his leg because all the bones are  _ healed _ fine.  _ Fine _ fine.”

 

“I see. That doesn’t seem possible, does it?”

 

Dean laughed again. It sounded to him as though his laughter was dying in his throat on the way out. “It’s  _ not _ possible. It’s a goddamn  _ miracle _ .” Then, more conspiratorially, Dean continued: “An angel did it. My angel.”

 

Castiel cleared his throat. His nervousness might have struck Dean as strange, but he was buzzing, joyous, and his ability to focus on much more than his own breathing was being tested.

 

“Why would anyone heal your father, least of all an angel?” Castiel pronounced. “I didn’t realize he was a devout man.”

 

Dean fell quiet. He hadn’t really thought about it. Why would an angel heal his father? Dean had always believed than angels existed, but it was another thing entirely to have proof of it, for it to be right in front of… well… other people’s eyes. Also X-ray machines. More importantly, though, why would an angel heal his dad rather than giving him back his eyesight? It didn’t make sense. Well, actually that wasn’t true. His sight had been destroyed by an angel, but his dad’s run in had been somewhat more mundane; maybe they couldn’t heal the harm they caused themselves?

 

“For me,” he said at last. “An angel would heal him for me, so that I don’t have to live with the ratty old bastard. So I don’t have to give up everything I care about, my independence...”

 

Castiel was so quiet that Dean might have thought that he wasn’t there at all if their bodies weren’t touching.

 

“But if an angel did something like that,” Dean said, “I think they’d have to love me very much. That’s probably not something angels are supposed to do, right? Like maybe… like maybe they’re also not meant to save kids from monsters.”

 

Cas still wasn’t moving, and he didn’t say a word, so Dean reached out and placed his hand on Cas’ knee, squeezing firmly.

 

“I’m guessing what happened wasn’t… it wasn’t meant to happen. But it was an accident, right? And if you hadn’t, then something… something much worse would have happened?”

 

“You lost your vision,” Castiel said, neither confirming nor denying his role. “Isn’t that a fate worse than death for humans? Don’t you hate it?”

 

Dean considered the question for a moment, but eventually he just smiled, and he pushed his shoulder back against Castiel’s in gentle reassurance. “It sucks sometimes, sure. But I know a lot of people who can see who aren’t as happy as I am, who get less out of life somehow. I miss my vision, I miss being able to just look at someone and see them smile at me. I miss the days when I could just pick something up if I dropped it, not spend half an hour or more crawling around on the floor trying to find it. I miss not bumping into things. Hell, I wish I’d been able to watch my little brother grow up, you know? Play ball with him. But I’m  _ happy _ , Cas. This is my life, and I’m happy, and isn’t that what matters most of all? Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

 

Castiel was silent again. Dean waited, knowing that patience would win out, that Cas would speak when he was ready to. At last a tentative hand folded over his own. “If you’re happy then I’m happy.”

 

“You’re not gonna leave, are you? I mean...now you’ve done your guardian angeling, you’re not gonna disappear on me?”

 

“You want me to stay?”

 

“I want you to stay. I… I’d like you to stay, Cas. Besides, if you stay you can come listen to me play at the bar. I’d like that. And you’re sort of the man of my dreams, you know? I’m sure there’s something… well, I’m sure there’s some other things you can show me.”

 

“I’d rather we weren’t sleeping for all of them,” Castiel answered, solemnly.

 

Dean laughed, and reached back, interweaving his arm with Castiel’s, gripping tight to the inside of his elbow. “Take me home, angel.”

 

And he did.

 

For the record: angelic travel, though disorienting, was appreciably faster than traveling by police cruiser. Which meant that Dean just got Cas to bed that much faster. And really, considering all the beautiful noises his guardian angel made, he would be hard pressed to complain too often about a little haste. Patience, sometimes, was unbelievably overrated.


End file.
